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Beer Review: Heavy Seas Davy Jones Lager

October 14, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

All this week my posts will be related to Heavy Seas Beer of Baltimore, Maryland. Why? Because they make great beer, are a local favorite, and were nice enough to let me wander around their brewery for a few hours with a camera.

Lager yeast and I have never seen eye-to-eukaryote. Every time I brew with it, I’m overly concerned by the lack of quick airlock-action, the diminutive krausen, and the whole needing to keep it cold even though that doesn’t make any logical sense to me. “Bottom fermentation” hides in that foggy part of my brain where I kind of understand what’s going on in terms of beer-science, but also still think it’s some kind of mystic raffinose related ritual.

For a long time, I thought all pale lagers tasted the same. I created a mental association between “lager” and “light,” as if all light beers were lagers, and vice versa. Unless it was something obviously different (like a märzen or a bock), that fizzy yellow-gold stuff all fell safely in the “mowing the lawn on a mid-July Saturday” category. Plenty of refreshment, but not much in terms of complexity. I blame four collegiate years of destroying my taste buds on Milwaukee’s Best Ice.

My fridge – colloquially named “The Beerhome” – is full of ales. That’s sort of its lot in life: a house with the thermostat stuck at 40º, bunk beds ready for several perfectly lined-up rows of stouts, IPAs, porters, and pales. I try to venture into new territory, but the tongue wants what it wants. Lagers don’t usually rent a room in the Beerhome unless 1) I’m having a party, or 2) I just had a party.

I bought Heavy Seas Davy Jones Lager because I’m a pirate. No hyperbole or jokes, I am legitimately a pirate. I have proof:

I'm the one on the right, with the beer. This was at work.

I’m the one on the right. This is a normal outfit for me.

I’m obligated to try a beer that is pirate themed, even if it’s outside of my normal taste spectrum.

And I’m glad I did.

Unlike other traditional pale lagers, Davy Jones Lager ferments at ale temperatures (~68-70º F), and is then dropped to lager temperatures for the storing process. This is the same process used to create California Steam/Common beer, for those inquiring minds. Warm temperature tolerant yeasts became popular in the 1800s when refrigeration was a luxury not every brewery could afford, especially not during the primary fermentation phase.

The result of this temperature dance is a beer that honors the clear and crisp legacy of other lagers, but also retains fruity esters and complex malt notes. It tends to be creamier than lagers fermented cold, which pleases us picky, ale-centric drinkers. It’s got more up-front hop flavor (a nice citrus bump that I think comes from the Centennials), which is an appreciated departure from the bitter dryness of Czech style pilsners, or any of the American adjunct lagers.

At 6% it’s a bit stronger than you might expect from an “easy drinking” beer, but there are no phenols or fusels present anywhere. Davy Jones has quickly become one of my favorite beers to relax with after work. It’s also a great beer to gently introduce your Bud and Coors friends to the world of craft. Sadly, Heavy Seas only plans to brew it from May-July, so I’ll just have to fill the holds of my ship (basement) with enough to tide me over these harsh Maryland winters.

Heavy Davy Jones Lager Vitals:

ABV: 6.0%
IBUs: 30
Hops: Warrior, Fuggle, Palisade, Centennial
Malts: 2-Row, Flaked Maize, Wheat Malt, Biscuit

Go Go Gadget Beer: Flavor “Enhancing” Goo

June 24, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

I am a novelty whore. I voluntarily ate both spawns of the Doritos Locos Taco. I actively sought out (and drank!) Rogue’s Voodoo Donut Maple Bacon ale and DuClaw’s Sweet Baby Jesus Peanut Butter porter. If it’s unorthodox for the sake of oddness, chances are very high that I will want to try it. Once.

Beer gadgetry isn’t something new. The ancient Egyptians had kegerators built out of crudely dug clay ditches and special insulated pots. The Vikings turned pelts and animal horns into particularly badass drinking vessels, because screw regular old cups. In the dizzying whirl of the information age we’ve got Beer Keurigs, beer-chilling rods, flavor-infusers, pressurized growlers, and now, beer enhancing goo:

OnTap Liquid Beer Enhancer – Pale Ale
Makes 18 “beers” – $4.99

Here’s the idea: You’re a craft beer person, out gallivanting in the social wilderness like craft beer people are apt to do. You somehow, against your best efforts, find yourself in a place where there is no craft beer, and you’re super bummed about it. Your friend offers you a Miller/Coors/Bud light from the overstocked cooler and you cringe; even the idea of all that the corn or rice adjunct burns the back of your tongue. But fear not! In your pocket is a little white egg of brownish-orange goo that can save you from the tragic blandness. A few squirts and that faded yellow becomes decadent amber, the fizzy weak flavor becomes an orgy of delight happening directly on (top of) your tongue.

It’s a solid premise. Make not so good beer into OK beer so that you can force it down without too much gagging or too many audible “ughs.”

Unfortunately, the proposed premise is not properly perpetuated by the product.

Don’t Knock it ’till you try it; then knock it

I tapped (get it!?) my neighbors to find some beer that needed enhancing. After digging through their fridges like some classless drunk, I managed to score an MLB themed Budweiser, an amazingly engineered Miller Lite (with Punch Top™ for extra flow), and a classic can of Pottsville’s finest Yuengling Lager.

I didn’t waste any time. I jammed one of my good kitchen knives into the Miller Lite Punch Top™ and let that baby flow, smooth as buttercream frosting, into my glass. Then I squirted a generous blast of OnTap Pale Ale goo into the beer, using the instructional video as a rough guide.

There are no instructions with this stuff. There should really be some instructions. It says to “always dilute in a full glass of beer,” but that’s like an omelette recipe that says, “maybe add some eggs or something.”

I think I used too much. Got too zealous with my squeezing. The Miller turned from well-hydrated-piss yellow to a pretty decent amber color. The pure white head was tinted sort of orange, but not in a gross way. It certainly looked more appetizing.

And then my nose, like a catcher taking a 105mph fastball to the ribs, caught a whiff of what it smelled like. Stale malt, bananas so old they’re completely black, party-favor lip gloss. Maybe some over steeped Darjeeling in a rusty tea pot. Nothing beer-like. Definitely nothing enhanced.

The taste was horrible, with special emphasis on the “horr” part, as in its flavor was the horrifying result of a horrific bargain with a cosmic horror. It was mainly malt, but behind that there were clear notes of potting soil, burlap, and shrimp toast. It was in no way appetizing, and actually made me not like beer for one very, very, very brief moment.

But, I had used what seemed like a lot of this stuff, so I attributed the overwhelming badness to user error. Maybe it’s not compatible with MillerCoors products and I missed that in the extensive documentation.

I gave it another go. This time with America’s favorite pale-lager and America’s favorite pastime.

I used a lot less, but got pretty much the same deal. Yellow to gold. Smells so alien they belong in a H.R. Giger painting. Tastes like eating chemicals off of a factory floor. I couldn’t finish either beer and ended up breaking one of my hardcore beer rules: I poured them down the drain, saluting them as the washed out into some Potomac river tributary.

I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I think I’d prefer to drink either of these beers without trying to make them better. At least they are shameless in their roles as tasteless vehicles for alcohol.

I didn’t even bother adding any goo to the Yuengling. I drank it quickly, with purpose, as a palate cleanser. Best Yuengling I’ve ever had, except for maybe the one I had at my wedding reception.

After about an hour of puzzling over the smells and tastes, putting little droplets of the goo concentrate of my fingers to study it, I realized what this stuff is. It’s liquid malt extract – the kind that comes in big cans used by homebrewers – watered down to a point where it can be squeezed out of a little bottle. I have no real proof of this of course, but the similarities are uncanny.

There is so much more to beer than malt. Even kits that use malt extract are boiled for at least an hour and have hops and other goodies added to them. Beer is the culmination of the brewing process; it can’t be faked or “enhanced” or recreated with chemicals and colorants. Without each step, done carefully and skillfully, the end result is not beer. Some weird thing wearing a beer mask, trying to talk and act like beer maybe, but definitely not real ale or lager.

I sort of admire this company for trying something new, but unfortunately, I can’t recommend this stuff. If you’re forced to drink something decidedly uncrafty, just smile and be a cool dude about it. I’d rather be the guy grimacing every few minutes than the obnoxious guy who has to inject all his beer with mysterious liquids to make them “good.”

Better to put the $4.99 this stuff costs towards a six-pack of real pale ale.

Review(s): Boulevard Single and Double Wide IPA

January 29, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

The beer settled in the glass and filled it, and next to the glass in the emptiness of the bottle bubbles disappeared, malty and hoppy aromas floating upwards with them, the brew master’s art to meet nose and tongue in one final flourish, bottle cap like a fallen guardian, rolling awkwardly on jagged metal edge. And beside the glass on the bar stool the drinker sat, questioning his philosophies, pouring his life into the beer that had just taken residence in the glass.

If someone had been looking for him, they could have found Jim on that bar stool for three hundred and fifty nine out of the last three hundred and sixty five. The only break in his streak came from a forced trip to Morgantown; a trip which resulted in a reckless driving ticket, a black eye, and a full, fresh case of apple pie moonshine. He planted himself there on red patent leather perch each evening at 5:49 (with clock-hand punctuality), not leaving until coaxed out by his next shift or a bartender who really, really wanted to go home.

Jim was more than a regular. He was as much a part of the Smokestack Tavern as the ring shaped stains that tattooed the shiny lacquer bar, or the dingy nicotine coated shade that hung over the unkempt lawn of a decades old pool table. The other regulars knew him as the first there, the first to start drinking, the first to order some chicken wings minutes after the kitchen had closed. To enter the bar meant a greeting from Jim, his energy and enthusiasm as inevitable as it was annoying.

He was a man of big ideas. Big hopes, big dreams, big visions of how he could break the world to his desires, reinvent anything and everything given enough time to mull it over. He would drink and dare and spin wild yarns like an eccentric seamstress about how he’d escape this town and start his own company and bring all his bar-friends with him, all while sitting, nearly immobile, on that same seat he had sat on for more years than he had ever spent in school.

In the tiny space of the bar, no stool was safe from his social filibusters, his simple solutions to social problems, political quandaries, deep, complex issues of ethics and morality. He often explained how a shift at Walmart (even a shift stocking shelves) was favorable to the midnight drive-through at Wendy’s, as he got to work with Sarah (who he’d sworn to marry, someday) and found the menial joy of placing every item on the shelf in perpendicular perfection an exercise in discipline and self-restraint.

In his drunken, heavy-handed wisdom, he would remind the other patrons how good they really had it, how they still had all their limbs and weren’t haunted by the stalking shadows of war, and PTSD, and memories a life away from the shores and safety of home. He’d point and shout at all the men gathered around the shabby dart board about the luxury of time to play games, time to let their responsibilities dissolve into the effervescence of their light, domestic beer.

Even after too many poorly mixed Crown Royal and ginger ales, when he went just a little too far and invaded a little too much personal space, no one ever challenged Jim, told him to shut up, or suggested a meeting of fists in the parking lot. He’d become such a unwavering fixture that his squawking melted into the George Jones and Old Bosephus that filled out the background noise of the bar. Everyone knew Jim and knew the kind of guy he was; a guy stuck in a perpetual loop of failed self-improvement, a guy who lived vicariously through his own dreams of the future, never actually moving forward, always circling back to his stool, the comfort of the regular, the near inescapable rut of routine.

And no one faulted Jim because they were all in parts just like him, all stuck in their own private loops of success and failure, all hoping to one day be something greater than a quiet silhouette in a dark corner of the Smokestack. They never spoke against him or disagreed, in silent consensus that his positivity, however misguided and unrelenting, was one of very few things that held them back from the brink of small-town irrelevance.

They all knew that Jim, as overflowing with imagination as he was, would slowly stagger forward, by his moves or something else’s. He’d pile mistakes onto inaction until his life reached a critical mass of disappointment, and he’d finally break the world or the world would break his will.

He’d come to manage that Walmart, that Wendy’s, slowly hoard enough money in that jar beside the TV to push that single wide out to a double, come home each night to a pregnant Sarah, and go to sleep dreaming of his life reborn, king of that east Tennessee town.

The first paragraph of this story was part of my homework assignment for my grammar class. I had to mimic Steinbeck. It hurt my brain.

The first paragraph of this story was part of the first homework assignment for my grammar class. I had to mimic Steinbeck. It hurt my brain.

Review: The Hobbit (An Unexpected Journey)

December 15, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Spoiler Alert: If you still haven’t found any time in the past 75 years to read J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit, this review may contain spoilers. And wizards.

“What is he doing? The Hobbit isn’t a beer! I can tell, based on a small sample of his work, that this guy probably definitely doesn’t know anything about movies. Who is he to say if a collection of scenes with characters and action cobbled together is good or not? Clearly, he’s super-unqualified to write a movie review, and we shouldn’t listen to anything he says in principle alone.”

This is all true. I am not (and only very rarely, after many beers, claim to be) a film critic. I only go to the movies a few times a year, and the majority of my time spent appreciating cinema involves re-watching Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom for the 28th time (I’ve been keeping track).

But I am a huge Tolkien fan. I’ve read and analyzed The Hobbit/There and Back Again at least four times and the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy at least three times. I’ve powered through The Silmarillion in my quest to absorb the history of Middle Earth, and may or may not have a strange infatuation with wizards that permeates every mystical pore of my life (yes, I have a wizard on my desk at work, and yes I have two staves, both of which are imbued with the magical essence of awesomeness).

My wife and I are known to regularly watch the original Peter Jackson trilogy as the darker days of winter encroach on our social lives; retreating into the depths of Moria to seek the warmth of the Balrog’s fire. We often quote Tolkien in an attempt to look nerdy and cool. Hell, even our wedding reception was inspired by Bilbo’s eleventy-first birthday party!

I’ve got some authority here, if only the kind garnered from being a devoted, studious fan.

I had been looking forward to The Hobbit since it was originally attached to Guillermo del Toro and was elated when I heard Peter Jackson would be back at the helm. Jackson meant more McKellen, who begat more Wood, who begat more Blanchett and more Weaving.

I had very high hopes.

And those hopes were met.

Casting – A wizard, a hobbit, 12 dwarves, and a whole mess of goblins

Martin Freeman might be the single best casting choice in the history of film. Seriously. He has the perfect mannerisms to capture the accidental hero inside Bilbo: engaging reactionary facial expressions, awkward and unsure body language, humorous quips, and perfectly timed vocal responses. He may have ruined himself for other movies now because he was such a convincing hobbit. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to picture him in any other role.

Sir Ian McKellen (a personal hero of mine, second only to Patrick Stewart) was back in usual form, spouting wisdom and being more of the bumbling “grey” version of Mithrandir that is representative of his role in the original book. His performance seemed a bit rusty for the first ten minutes (while the opening exchange with Bilbo was funny, McKellen seemed to be getting used to wearing his beard again), but by the time the dwarven group was assembled, my favorite wizard had been reborn on screen. I squealed like a school boy when he unsheathed Glamdring in the troll hoard, because I’m the kind of person who gets excited over swords that have official names.

Richard Armitage completed the trio of protagonists, and was a compelling (if slightly less hairy than expected) vision of Thorin Oakenshield. He seemed more brooding and pensive than the bull-headed and arrogant Thorin of the novel, but it worked well with Armitage’s embodiment of the nomadic, homeless Prince.

The rest of the cast was lovable enough, but some of the dwarven makeup seemed to be intentionally overdone as a means to tell them apart form each other, and did very little to develop their individual characters. Voice actor Barry Humphries did an admirable job as the Great Goblin, but was a bit too articulate and well-spoken for a giant, cave-dwelling monstrosity with a ballsack for a neck. Andy Serkis, as usual, makes my heart cry out for (and cringe in reaction to) a hilariously schizophrenic, young Gollum.

Visuals – 48 vs 24 and Star Wars Syndrome

There was debate over Jackson’s decision to film in 48 frames per second versus the traditional 24. For those who don’t get a warm rush of serotonin from reading about technical specs, 48 frames produces a more realistic image, as it effectively captures twice the detail per each second recorded (see here for a visual example). But making things more realistic (especially scenes in a high fantasy movie) isn’t always an amazing idea. Movies retain a certain level of whimsy and escapism because they actively don’t seem real, something that could be lost with a more true-to-what-I-see-all-boring-day style of filming.

But, as I didn’t bother with the extra expense of the 3D version (another rant for another time), I barely even noticed the shift in frame rate. The only times it snarled it’s hyper-realistic warg-teeth was during large sweeping fly-over shots. The usual blur of the background came off too crisp, like I was watching the actors run around form inside a helicopter, not form behind the comfort of the proverbial fourth wall.

My biggest fault in the visuals of the movie were the overcooked action scenes. Jackson had nearly 10 years of technological advancement to try out in his prequel, which he did without reservation.

I call this “Star Wars Syndrome.” George Lucas dramatically altered his own vision of medieval swordplay light saber duels with acrobatics and Wushu as soon as he had the technology to do it. Compare Luke and Vader’s final battle to Obi Wan and Anakin’s lava-duel. You wouldn’t even imagine the same director and artistic mind came up with both of those fight scenes if viewed independently.

Jackson, unfortunately, seemed to contract a case of SWS. Long gone are the intense, one-versus-many steel on steel combat scenes of the original trilogy. The clean, believable sword play of Aragorn is replaced by frenetic pile-on scenes, where the dwarves seem capable of super-human (super-dwarven?) abilities, and able to escape pretty much any situation unscathed. All of the fight scenes in The Hobbit feel over-designed, preferring silly, choreographed tumbling and striking over impressive displays of heroic badassery. I almost found myself waiting for the fight scenes to end, which is a discredit to the franchise, and oddly out of sync with my normal enjoyment of a film like this.

I think this is a great example of where technology loses to good old fashioned training. Armitage and his dwarven buddies would have been much more believable in a fight if they’d actually been swinging their swords and axes, not relying on a computer to magically do it for them. I kept thinking that someone in the production staff had made the executive decision that the Legolas “use-a-shield-as-a-sled” scene was the greatest thing ever, and made it the model for all of the fight scenes in The Hobbit.

This was still a beautiful movie. A lot of time was invested into the makeup and design of the sets, and the closing scene of Smaug’s eye opening looked incredibly authentic. Orcrist, Glamdring, and Sting were captured beautifully, and Rivendell was gorgeous, as if that is a surprise. Hindsight is always favorable and I’ve grown mighty fond of the original LOTR trilogy, so perhaps my opinion of the action is too tainted by nostalgia.

Length – Three instead of One?

The Hobbit is only ~300 pages (depending on the copy you’re reading). Splitting the original content into three, three hours movies seems a little bit excessive. As reluctant as I am to advocate for less Tolkien, critics have a point. There seemed to be a lot of scenes that were added just for the sake of padding the main plot points of the original novel so that it could span three full length movies. Jackson decided to turn a one-sentence reference to Radagast the Brown into a full character arc, including some silliness with a sled pulled by rabbits and some bird poop in wizard hair.

My theory is that Jackson realized this was his last chance to sink his dragon fangs into the Tolkien intellectual property. Once this series is over, it is unlikely we’ll see another LOTR or Hobbit reboot in our life time, making this second trilogy the final culmination of Tolkienage in video form.

Does that forgive some of the bloat?

Yes and no. I could have done without some of the 20 second long sweep shots of dwarves running across the same-old landscape and Jackson certainly enhanced certain scenes to make them more important than the original events of the book. I still didn’t find the movie too bloated, and the clever dialogue and placement of new (previously absent action) made 2.5 hours fly by. I never wanted things to move any more quickly, but I also have a full-blow case of Tolkienitus.

Those who are not as enamored with him as an author (or with the lore of Middle Earth) might find a bit of tedium in the less engaging sections of the movie. To those people I say: Hang in there. The best action of the Hobbit comes in right around the group’s arrival at Laketown (which I’m thinking will happen at the tail end of the second movie).

Overall – Firsts are tough; see Sorcerer’s Stone, A New Hope, and Fellowship of the Ring

I can’t lie, I totally loved this movie. It brought back all of the giddy memories of standing in line waiting for the midnight opening of Two Towers and Return of the King. It blew on the embers of my dwindling interest in swords and sorcery fantasy, stoking the fire of imagination. I now wait very impatiently for the mass market paperback of A Dance with Dragons to come out to feed my burning desire for more and more fantastic stories.

I’m particularly glad that Jackson understood the tone of the book and directly applied it to the film. The Hobbit is considerably less serious than the LOTR trilogy, and would have felt awkward and heavy had the producers and cast forced the same dour, fatalistic overtones of near hopelessness.

If you’re a Tolkien fan, I don’t need to tell you to go see if, because you probably already have.

If you’re a fantasy fan, go see this movie, if only for a great representation of a very influential book and author.

If you’re not a fantasy fan, you should still go see this movie, because it is actually pretty funny, and very well executed once your eyes adjust to the 48 FPS.

9.5 out of 10.

Well, what can I tell you? Life in the wide world goes on much as it has these past age, full of its own comings and goings, scarcely aware of the existence of hobbits… for which I am very thankful.

Review: Magic Hat Encore Wheat IPA

December 12, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Doing that podcast with Josh opened my drunkenly glazed-over eyes to a startling truth: I drink and love and appreciate beer, but I know very little about what goes into officially judging the quality of a beer.

To all the Beer Judge Certification Program (BJCP) people: I am so very sorry. I have been living an unintentional lie. I have been a poor herald for the beer drinking community.

But almost any mistake can be rectified and I chalk this one up to poor self-education. I downloaded the “BJCP Style Guidelines” and began scrutinizing it like a graduate student let loose on his favorite author’s magnum opus. I’m amazed at the nuance outlined in this guide. I discovered several new words for describing the taste and presentation of my favorite beers, all of which I will henceforth abuse and overuse all over this blog for a brief period that will probably last until I annoy myself by using them too much.

This guide is also packed with short histories on styles, judge’s comments, and common ingredients. If you haven’t read it, or at least checked out the notes on your favorite style (I found the Marzen section extra fascinating) I highly recommend you do. It’s like a text book, technical guide, beer overview, and flavor bible all in one!

2008 is the latest version I could find. If anyone has a new version, send it my way!

My favorite new term is actually for judging mead (and other wine): Mousiness.

I can’t wait to hold a glass of mead up to a light, tilt it slightly and say, “Almost no mousiness. Nice.” I will then, in a very unprofessional and unrestrained manner, drink the rest of the bottle of delicious honey wine without scrutinizing every sip because I’m lacking quite a few of the qualities that might elevate me from “uncouth” to “refined.”

Other additions to my reviewing vocabulary:

Acetification (the process in which wine becomes vinegar)
Astringency (the dry, coarse taste often associated with tannins and overly sparged grains)
Diacetyl (the “slippery” or buttery taste of alcohol)
DMS (or dimethyl sulfide, a corn-like taste/smell found in lagers)
Melanoidins (the smell that comes from something that has been “browned” like a malt or a piece of toast)

Time to put this to good use. Here is my official BJCP-guided review of Magic Hat Encore Wheat IPA!

Aroma: Powerful up front hop character hits you like a prize-fighter’s right jab; grassy smells follow, after the beer has sat in the glass for a bit. Memories of being a child running through Floridian orange groves follow. Subtle wafts of wheat oscillate in the background between the hops and alcohol.

Appearance: Freshly minted penny meets Crayola orange. Cloudy but not completely opaque, probably a result of the wheat. The thin, brilliant white head persists for several minutes and crowns the beer like a laurel of foam. Probably a 15-16 on the SRM scale.

Flavor: Similar to other IPAs until the back end, when the wheat sneaks up and bites your tongue. Complex hop flavors come from the Simcoe and Amarillo fighting each other. Strong citrus flavor finishes off each sip.

Mouthfeel: Medium body, nice tingle from the carbonation, but no burn. Relatively smooth, enjoyable to drink.

Overall Impression: A serviceable and drinkable IPA. Don’t see how the wheat really helped things, but it didn’t hurt things either. Would buy again, maybe in Spring/Summer instead of Fall/Winter.

8.25 out of 10.

I feel like I should use monosyllabic expressions of my feeling when writing a formal review. Hrm. Yes. Quite. Mmph.

Review: Harpoon IPA

April 13, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

I had a hard time deciding how to review what is arguably my favorite beer. I decided to merge it with what is arguably my favorite literary work.

Seems appropriate.

The IPAven

Once upon a midday cheery, while I pondered drunk and beery,
Over many a quaint and curious glass that I’d forgotten to pour,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gentle rapping, rapping on the outside door,
Tis some visitor, I muttered, tis one of my friends rapping at the home’s front door,
Only this, and nothing more.

Ah distinctly I remember, it was on the brightest Easter,
And each separate dying beer can wrought its shell upon my floor,
Eagerly I fought the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow,
From my brews surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lonely pour,
For this rare and radiant pale ale that the angels forgot to pour,
Nameless here, for ever more.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple label,
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic flavors that I’d never tasted before;
So that now, to still the beating of my drunken mind, I stood repeating,
Tis some housemate entreating entrance at the home’s front door,
Some drunk friend entreating entrance at the home’s front door,
This it is, and nothing more.

Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
Bro, said I, or buddy, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, drunken when you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at the home’s front door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you – here I opened wide the door,
Deep Creek there, and nothing more.

Far across that lake peering, long I stood there, wondering, leering,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no sober man ever dared to dream before,
But the silence was unbroken, and the waters gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “please pour”,
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, “please pour!”
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my gas within me burping,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
Surely, said I, surely that is something in my brain come loose;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,
Let my stomach be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
Tis DTs and nothing more!

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a hizz and bubble,
In there dripped a stately pale ale of the saintly liquor store.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, into pint glass he did pour,
Settle on the oaken table, in this pint glass himself he poured –
Settled, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this yellowy beer beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the bitter and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
Though they head be short and sparing, thou, I said, art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and tasty haven from the darkened near lake shore,
Tell me what thy lordly name is on Boston’s Plutonian shore!
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”

Much I marveled this ungainly brew to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore,
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being,
Ever yet was cursed with seeing no beers in his fridge with which to pour,
Brew or yeast outside of glassware, somehow never being poured,
With such a name as, “Never pour.”

But the pale ale sitting lonely on the placid oak, spoke only,
Those two words, as if his soul with hops did store,
Nothing further then he uttered – not a bubble then he sputtered,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have drank before,”
On the morrow he will leave me, empty glass reflecting hopes as before,
Then the beer said, “Never pour.”

Startled at my buzz so broken by reply so aptly spoken,
Doubtless, said I, what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy brewmaster whom merciful disaster,
Swallowed fast and swallowed faster till his kegs one burden bore,
Till the dirges of his hope that metal keg bore,
Of, “Never-never pour.”

But the pale ale still beguiling my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned recliner in the front of beer and table and door,
The, upon the pleather sinking, I betook myself to linking,
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous beer of corner store,
What this hopped, flavored, tasty, and masterful beer of the corner store,
Meant in croaking, “Never pour.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no sober syllable expressing,
To the brew who’s fiery eyes now burned into my brain’s dull core,
This and more I sat divining, with my head from suds reclining,
On the cushion’s pleasing pleather lining that the IKEA lamp gloated o’er,
But whose pleasing pleather lining that the IKEA lamp gloated o’er,
She shall sip, ah, but never pour!

Then me though the liquid grew denser, flavored from unseen censur,
Dipped by Seraphim whose foot-falls trickled on the heady floor,
Wretch! I cried, they God hath lent thee – by these bottles he has sent thee,
Respite – respite and hydration from they memories of the beer I forgot to pour,
Quaff, oh quaff this kind Gatorade, and forget this misplaced pour,
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”

Prophet! Said I, thing of evil! – prophet still if beer or devil!
Whether ferment sent or whether fermentation toss thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this lake shore land enchanted,
On this home by horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore!
Is there – is there beer in Gilead? Tell me, tell me! I implore.
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”

Prophet! Said I, thing of evil! – prophet still if beer or devil!
By that lake that swells beside us, by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distance Boston,
It shall clasp a sainted ale of who I never got to pour –
Clasp a rare and flavorful ale, who they never let me pour?
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”

Be those words our sign of parting, beer or fiend! I shrieked upstarting –
Get thee back into the kettle, back to that fated liquor store,
Leave no bottle cap as token of that lie thy soul hath spoken,
Leave my drunkeness unbroken, quit the table on my floor,
Take thy hops from off my tongue, a take thy form from off my floor,
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”

And the pale ale, never fizzing, still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the oaken oakheart table sitting on my living room floor,
And his suds have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the IKEA lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor,
And my drunken form lies in that shadow that is floating on the floor,
The beer is never opened, into my glass is never poured!

(Original – The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Beer cover version by Oliver Gray)

He claimed never would I drink his flesh, but into my glass his soul did pour.

Next up: Brooklyn Pennant Ale ’55!

Review: Brooklyn East India Pale Ale

April 12, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Friday, 9:29 p.m.

::Bzzzzzzzt:: ::Bzzzzzzt::

Oliver: Oh hey Yuengling! What’s up?
Yuengling: Hey Oliver…
Oliver: Are you OK? You sound weird.
Yuengling: Yea…I’m OK…hey I’m glad you’re around…we need to talk.
Oliver: We do? What do you mean?
Yuengling: This isn’t working out. We’re growing apart. I feel like we don’t even talk anymore.
Oliver: Yuengs…baby…don’t do this. We can work through this…I’ve just been really busy at school, and…
Yuengling: Oliver…don’t make this harder than it already is. I think it’s time we go out drinking with other beers.
Oliver: No, no…we can’t…we’ve been through so much! I love you Yuengling!
Yuengling: Goodbye Oliver.

::Click::

Saturday, 2:21 a.m.

::Riiiing:: ::Riiiing::

Yuengling: He…hello? Oliver?
Oliver: Yuengssssss baby! Hey! Hi! Sup? Sup yo! Yo yo.
Yuengling: Oliver. Do you have any idea what time it is? Are you drunk?
Oliver: Noooooooo. Nope. Maybe. You don’t know! I only had like four hundred and sixty THOUSAND shots. Hahahahahha.
Yuengling: You’re an idiot.
Oliver: And you’re a bitch! No, I’m sorry, I dinnnn’t mean that. I’m just druuuunnkkkk. Hey. Hey. Can we talk? Like, about us?
Yuengling: I don’t think that is a good idea Oliver. Maybe we can talk once you wake up.
Oliver: You alllwaaays say that. You never let me say what I wanna say. I’m jusss trying to tell you words about stuff. About important stuff. Life stuff. Hey. Heeeey. You wanna go get Chipotle? You think they’re open? I’m so hunnnngry!
Yuengling: Go to bed, Oliver. Drink some water. Call me when you grow up.
Oliver: You cannnit tell me how I can do. What I can do. Do. Yea, I’ll be right there. I KNOW, it’s my ex. I KNOW.
Yuengling: Wait, who is that? Is that another beer in the background? I thought I heard the sound of a bottle opening.
Oliver: Whaaaa? Nooooo. No way dude. You so cray. Um, I gotta go or something OK byyyeeee.

::Click::

Saturday, 10:12 a.m.

::Bzzzzzt:: ::Bzzzzzzt:: ::Bzzzzzt::
::Bzzzzzt:: ::Bzzzz:

Oliver: Ugggghhhhhhh…hello?
Yuengling: Hey there champ, how you feeling?
Oliver: I can’t feel my face.
Yuengling: Did you drink any water? Do you remember calling me last night?
Oliver: I called you? Shit.
Yuengling: Yea, you did. It was pretty funny. Who were you with last night?
Oliver: Oh…just the guys. Some other people came over, I think. I remember someone with an abundance of bubbles and carbonation.
Yuengling: I thought I heard some other beers in the background.
Oliver: Oh, yea, I think some of Steve’s friends came over. I didn’t know them.
Yuengling: Oh, OK. Hey, I was thinking, maybe I rushed things…can we meet up tod…what was that? Did I hear a giggle?
Oliver: Huh? No…that was the TV…
Yuengling: I knew I heard other beers! Are you with that slut, Brooklyn East India Pale Ale!? Do you have any idea how many pint glasses she has been in? I know her type, everyone thinks she’s exotic with that “East” in front of IPA, but she’s nothing special.
Oliver: Hey, she was here with her IPA-like flavor and relatively subtle hopping. She cared about my opinions of what glassware works for what beers. Plus, I distinctly remember you breaking up with me.
Yuengling: You are such a pig. We were on a break.
Oliver: Sounded like a breakup to me. Anyway, me and Brooklyn are going to get some breakfast. Probably something that will help get rid of this hang over, and the bitter after taste she left in my mouth.
Yuengling: You were many things in our time Oliver, but cruel was never one of them.
Oliver: I’m sorry Yuengling, I never meant to hurt you…it just happened. I had an empty glass, and she was an open bottle. I hope someday we can work out our differences and be friends.

::Click::

9 out of 10.

Pretty, isn't she?

Next up: Harpoon IPA!

Review: Heavy Seas Classic Lager

April 3, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

I can’t say I left the best for last, but I definitely didn’t leave the worst for last. Or the best for first, or worst for first. The order was completely arbitrary, truth be told.

I’m not saying I don’t plan out my blog posts, but I don’t plan out my blog posts.

Beers like this make me question how Budweiser makes any sales. When you could get this beer for a few dollars more, I don’t know why you’d ever bother with anything that dare call itself, “lager-style” beer. That’s a psuedo-name, like Yoohoo “chocolate drink “or Velveeta “synthetic cheese-rubber hybrid product.” Humans probably aren’t supposed to consume “-style” things.

I’m not saying “lager-style” beers cause mysterious illnesses, but it might explain a lot.

Heavy Seas Classic Lager is both classic and a lager. It’s very light (much lighter than anything I have already reviewed) making it a great Spring/Summer time beer. It lacks any semblance of sweetness, probably because it was made with real ingredients, not weird adjuncts and unspecified amounts of the “Secret Ingredient” (high fructose corn syrup).

I’m not saying mainstream American brews are made with high fructose corn syrup, but I wouldn’t be surprised.

I poured this into a glass for the sake of photography (this is my favorite photo, for anyone who has read them all), but in the future I’d drink it straight from the bottle. It doesn’t have a powerful aroma that needs a glass to breathe, and you’re more likely to spill it while gesticulating wildly in the throws of a particularly animated story-telling.

I’m not saying I wave my arms around like maniac after a few beers, but I could be confused with an Italian person.

Yuengling is (for better or worse) my go-to lager. It’s flavorful and cheap and goes down relatively smooth. But my palette is changing, growing, evolving. I’m starting to appreciate something with a little more intensity, and I think HS:CA can scratch that itch. It’s like one of those little hand-on-a-stick back scratchers, but made of beer.

I’m not saying I make bad analogies, but some of the stuff I say doesn’t make much sense at all.

Buy! Enjoy! Thank me later! By buying me a beer!

8.25 out of 10

We drink our beer from mason jars.

Thanks to everyone who read (and hopefully enjoyed) my reviews. I plan to do more in the future, and will probably turn this into a weekly column at some point.

Stay tuned!

Review: Smuttynose Star Island Single

April 2, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

This review required a little research on my part. For whatever reason, I had always assumed that the “session” part of a session ale had something to do with the brewing process. Like how long the brewing session lasted. Or something. Yea, yea, sometimes I don’t think things through. Stop judging me.

While there is no solid consensus on the origin of the name, a “session ale” seems to come from the days of the industrial revolution, when workers only had specific, limited times to be social and drink. These sessions would be a much needed break from the work day, and gave the dirty, overworked factorymen a chance to unwind.

One problem with these sessions? The workers had to go back to work afterwards.

So to prevent an entire workforce of extremely drunken men working with heavy machinery in the days long before OSHA, a new beer was fashioned. Usually lower than 5% ABV and featuring supreme drinkability, these session ales were light enough for men to have 4-5 while socializing, but still be able to walk out of the pub.

I don’t have a lot of experience with other session ales, but after drinking 3 Star Island Singles, I definitely want to get some. It’s very, very drinkable, the beer disappears from the glass faster than you seem to be drinking it. This is antithetical to a beer that you’d nurse and savor; it begs you to drink it, and already have another open to refill your glass.

It’s a light orange with a decent head, and an almost non-existent smell. You really have to shove your nose into the glass to get the flowery bouquet of weak hops, yeast, and light malt. It settles quickly, but retains consistent carbonation, giving each sip a bite, like it’s full of microscopic sharks.

In terms of taste, it probably falls somewhere between a full-bodied lager and a weak pale ale. It’s sour but not unpleasant, refreshing but not watery. It’s actually incredibly refreshing. All most too refreshing.

It’s easy to see why this style of beer was popular for drinking sessions. It goes down effortlessly, but it doesn’t get you drunk. I imagine it is what Non-alcoholic beer dreams to be when it grows up. The opus of beer drinkers everywhere: delicious beer that doesn’t get you too drunk.

Well, it does. But you have to drink a lot of it. I guess that’s the point.

8 out of 10.

The mermaid on the label give me the creeps.

Next up: Heavy Seas Classic Lager

Review: Heavy Seas Loose Cannon IPA

April 1, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

A loose cannon aboard a pirate ship would probably be a pretty terrifying thing.

~3,500 lbs of steel and iron rolling around wildly at the whims of the waves, slamming into man and barrels of rum alike.

I can’t imagine anything good ever came of a loose cannon, short of that one scene in At World’s End when they loose the cannons to tip the boat upside down (which probably would have totally worked and MythBusters should try that).

Unless you count this beer, which would be a great thing to come of a loose cannon, if only in name.

This is a flagship (I’m just overflowing with bad puns) beer for Heavy Seas and I’ve seen it on tap in more than one bar. It’s a pretty traditional and well presented IPA with generous hopping and a crisp, only-slightly-bitter return.

I could talk with this beer. Talk about politics. About the state of the union. About which weapons would be the best to fight of a smallish throng of classic, Romero-style zombies. The important things in life.

I could walk with this kind of beer. On the beach. Around my yard as I mow. To the local 7-11 to get week-old taquitos. This beer can and should go places.

I could get deep with this beer. Talk about astronomy. Physics. Which deep sea creatures are the most horrifically nightmarish and why. This beer will make your brain even juicier than it was prior to you drinking it.

And despite the fact that I don’t actually know how, I could sail with this beer.

I could point the 30 pounders at my enemy’s broadside. I could cut across the wind, leaving her dead in the water. I could yell to my men to “loose the cannons!” and they would all stand around looking at me, wondering why the hell I’m the captain when I clearly don’t know what I’m doing.

I meant, if you had let me finish, “Fire!”

Its color is similar to Dogfish Head Shelter Pale. It’s more orange and opaque than Harpoon IPA (which is surprisingly yellow, but I digress) but it is also heavier, and slightly sharper in terms of carbonation. It has a generous head that will give you a nice beer mustache if you’re too eager to drink. It’s sour and savory, like a bottle of hot sauce minus the chili.

I’m a fan of this IPA. I buy it frequently. Partly because it’s a Maryland beer, partly just because it’s flat-out good. Dogfish head 60 minute is arguably a better IPA, but Loose Cannon is cheery, casual, and cheap(er).

8 out of 10.

Drinking beer on the stairs, an old pirate tavern pastime.

Next up: Smuttynose Star Island Single!

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